In my 52.5 years, I have never experienced such a violent stomach flu. As I crawled out of the bathroom toward bed, yet again, I realized I had lost count at my 20th trip during the night. Thankfully, by mid-morning, it was over.

Two days later Abbotsford experienced the harshest ice storm in our history. Our world began to glaze.

I was sitting on the couch reading when an unusual sound from the front yard caught my attention. It wasn’t a sharp crack or explosion-like noise, but something bigger than a passing car or pellets of freezing rain.

As I turned to investigate, I watched two branches from our 40+ foot red maple tree smash to the road. Out went our power.

“Bill, there goes part of our tree,” I announced calmly. I suspect he expected to see a limb or two on the snow-covered lawn. His shock was evident; the damage severe. I have cried all week.

This was the family tree we planted 27 years ago; the one with five branches thick enough to hug; the maple our boys climbed and swung on; the one that cooled us from summer heat and filled our street with autumn beauty.

Brokenness is raw.

Now two-fifths of our magnificent tree lay broken and splayed across the lawn and street, twisted and exploded. I wondered if the remaining trunk, with a four-foot gash, would ever support what remained. Seeing one so previously majestic grieved my heart.

Brokenness is vulnerable.

The timing of the crash – Friday of New Year’s weekend – gave me five days to gaze at our fallen friend. A flurry of calls to arborists and wood-wise friends provided solemn news: the rest of the tree was coming down. On Wednesday it did.

I knew it would be difficult to watch the end of an era.

Yes, it’s “just a tree” as some have noted. Yes, I am intensely grateful that no one was hurt and property damage was minimal. Yes, we can re-plant and enjoy a different look. All true.

Yet, this was our tree. Grandbabies won't climb it. We will no longer be able to tell new visitors, “When you turn onto our street, look for the huge maple tree in the front yard. That’s our house.”

It’s winter. Even if we wanted to act right away, we can’t replace the tree in this season. So I process this loss how God has taught me over and over. I will do my best to sit in the mess and wait – wait for Him to heal, for Him to direct, for Him to teach.

And, some day we will replant.

In the meantime, I will choose to give thanks for the 27 years we lived in the shade of such beauty.

Wonderfully written. It’s such a privilege to do life with you. Thank you once again for your vulnerability, honesty and wisdom. Love and hugs Rosabelle

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Janet Greaves

6/1/2018 06:58:41 am

Thank you for this Shelaine...brokenness is raw and vulnerable...the winter of grief can feel so long...I too rest in Him, trusting (most days) for Him to heal, direct & teach,
much love to you and all your family

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In The Midst

Author:​Shelaine Strom

I am a writer by circumstance, a career and life coach, instructor and speaker sidelined in 2012 by a broken-down jaw.​I am a writer by design, one willing to venture down a different path in a season of pain and waiting, offering my words and watching God use them for His purposes.

I am a writer by choice who documented the journey of pain, the decisions made around an invasive surgery, the miracles and the healing process.

And now I am a writer, career and life coach, instructor and event speaker with stories to tell of God in the midst of it all.